


Let No Man Put Asunder

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Schmoop, Season/Series 09, but they're married, i'm not saying they're married, the gang is just mentioned briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 07:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1002748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Ezekiel is out of Sam, after he is fully-healed. After the yelling and the apologizing and the understanding, Dean and Sam hug like they do whenever one of them is pulled back from the brink. This time though, Dean doesn’t think he can let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let No Man Put Asunder

**Author's Note:**

> Since Dean was so sad at the end of my last story, I wanted to write one where the boys are happy. So even though I expect this to get Jossed in three days, have some schmoopy, happy, there's so much love I can't believe I wrote it, Wincest. Now with sexy times! All this is fewer than 4000 words. It's a miracle!

After Ezekiel is out of Sam, after he is fully healed, after the yelling and the apologizing and the understanding, Dean and Sam hug like they do whenever one of them is pulled back from the brink. This time though, Dean doesn’t think he can let go. Sam doesn’t seem any more inclined to move away and suddenly Dean can’t stand being exposed like this for one more second. He whispers low in Sam’s ear, “Wanna get outta here?”

Sam nods against his shoulder. Dean kind of loves the way Sammy hunches down when they hug so he can tuck his head against Dean. Dean gives him one last tight squeeze. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he says out loud to the room, pulling away from the hug but keeping his hand on the small of Sam’s back. "Show’s over. I need to talk to Sam alone. Don’t break anything while we’re gone.” He’s talking to Ezekiel and Kevin and Charlie, but it’s Charlie he points to on that last part. She raises her hands defensively. “I’m just gonna make some popcorn and watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail with Kevin. Prophet of the Lord here has never seen it.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, tilts his head. “Do we own that movie?” Charlie rolls her eyes. Dean waves her away. “Whatever. Just...don’t call us, we’ll call you.” He leads Sam down the hall to his bedroom, and if his hand stays on Sam’s back, thumb hooked in the waistband of his jeans, well, who’s to know?

He's concentrating hard on not swiping his thumb back and forth across Sam’s skin and slipping his fingers into the back pocket of his jeans, so when Sam stops abruptly in front of the closed door, his hand still on the knob, Dean gets a face full of flannel.

He bends around Sam see what the problem is. “What? Is it locked?” Sam’s hair tickles Dean’s ear as he shakes his head no, doorknob almost swallowed by his hand. “Is something wrong?” Another head shake. His fingers tighten on Sam’s hip and Sam’s back muscles tense and release under his touch. It’s stupid to be standing in the hall with sanctuary so close. Dean reaches around Sam, places his hand over Sam’s and turns the knob. With a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, he guides Sam into the room. 

A click of the door and the world is shut out. It’s just him and Sam in a room, like a million times before. But this time it’s different. This is Dean’s very own room in the only place he’s thought of as home since he was four years old. Despite the lack of any natural light, the room glows gold. The red brick wall and the warm wood of the bed capture and hold the light from the lead-glass shaded table lamps. Dean leans back against the door and rests his head on the wood, just breathing for a second, something they haven't had much time for lately. Ever. He looks through his eyelashes at Sam still standing there, back to Dean, as if he simply stopped after Dean pushed him in.

“Sam.” His voice is gravelly and deep. “Sit.” He pushes up from the door and jerks his chin towards the bed. “Shoes off.” Sam sits on the side of the bed and bends down to pull off his shoes.

Toeing off his own shoes, and shucking off his overshirt, Dean sits his butt up by the head of the bed, leaning back against the headboard. His socked feet rest on Sam’s thigh where he perches on the edge of the bed like he might run away at any second. Dean has a wild urge to hide his shoes, as if that could trap Sam like some creature from a fairy tale. He digs his toes into Sam’s leg. “Hey, dude.” Sam pushes his hair behind his ear and looks over at Dean. He’s not smiling, but there’s something around his eyes that catches on Dean’s heart. 

“Come up here.” Dean pats the bed next to him. It’s a small bed and they’re both big guys, but they manage to arrange themselves with minimal elbows to the stomach or face. To no one’s surprise, they end up pressed together. Dean with his back up against the headboard, arm around Sam. Sam slumps down, head on Dean’s chest, one arm around his back, the other just touching him, holding onto to his shirt, smoothing it, playing with the buttons. They used to sit like this for hours, long ago, when they were years younger and worlds more innocent. That though makes Dean laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Sam asks.

Dean tugs at Sam’s hair, just because he can. “I actually just thought of us as innocent kids for a second.” 

Sam snorts into Dean’s chest. “Yeah, well, everything’s relative, right? Compared to now...Remember when you told me there was no such thing as angels?”

Yeah, Dean remembers. Several lifetimes ago. They have more lives than a cat. Dean’s arm tightens around Sam. Thanks to Ezekiel, Sam looks a little less craptastic than he’s been looking, but he’s still way too thin, the skin on his face stretched almost painfully across his bones. Dean’s fingers slide up and down the ladder of Sam’s ribs and he makes a note to stock up on, well, everything Sam likes, and some protein powder and vitamins. Maybe he’ll cook up some soup, something creamy and thick. Sam’s always liked that.

Dean cards his fingers through Sam’s hair while he creates a mental shopping list. It’s silky-soft and he’s always liked the way it feels slipping through his fingers. Sam’s breathing evens out, grows deeper, and he presses harder against Dean’s chest. Somehow Sam’s body always did get heavier as he got closer and closer to sleep.

Sound doesn’t travel far in the bunker and they might as well be the only ones in the place. The only thing Dean can hear is the whirring of the air circulators and Sam’s breath. If only they could stay in here for while, just hunker down, stop time for a bit. Dean burrows deeper through Sam’s hair, feeling for the scalp underneath, and he scratches across it. The soft contented sound Sam makes is what Dean was going for. With a feeling in his stomach almost exactly like being at the top of the highest drop of a roller coaster, Dean watches through lowered eyelids as he drags his blunt nails around the curve of Sam’s skull, down the side of his neck, and over his collarbone. He lets his hand ride the swell of Sam’s deep inhale, feels the pulse pounding under histhumb where it rests against the base of Sam’s neck.

With a little noise at the back of his throat, Sam pushes against the footboard and shifts a little more onto his side, arm sliding across Dean’s stomach. _Oh thank...whoever_. Dean’s very careful with who he calls on in his head these days. Bending his knees, he sinks a little further down the bed and reaches for Sam’s hand. He twines their fingers together and waits for the snide remark from Sam that never comes. 

His first attempt to speak comes out as a croak, and he feels Sam laughing silently under his arm. The pinch Dean gives his hip makes Sam wiggle against him. Not a bad result. He clears his throat and tries again. “You know. I meant what I said in that church. You and me, come whatever.” 

“With Crowley as our witness,” Sam tries to smile, tries to make it a joke, but his voice catches a little. Dean’s hands still in Sam’s hair.

“Yeah, with the King of Hell as our witness and all the angels falling like the fireworks of the damned.” Sam’s head rises and falls with Dean’s quick, pained almost-laugh. “Sounds about right for Winchesters.”

Sam’s fingers tighten over Dean’s, nails digging in, leaving little white crescents behind. The pulse under Dean’s thumb speeds up, and Dean can’t help but press harder against it. Taking a deep breath, Sam lifts up their joined hands and uses them to slide up Dean’s shirt. At the feel of Sam’s skin on his, the muscles in Dean’s stomach twitch, tightening and releasing. _Oh please_ , he thinks, not quite daring to breathe yet. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing feels right and what if he’s wrong, what if he’s only seeing what he wants to see and reading too much into it, and he’s gotta breathe really soon but his muscles are clenched so tightly he doesn’t think he can and then Sam’s croaked “So...” short circuits his mental panic attack.

As Sam clears his throat and slides his hand free to rest flat on Dean’s stomach, Dean drags in a breath so ragged he would be embarrassed if he could spare the brain space but the roller coaster is cresting the hill really fast and every part of him is straining to hear what Sam is going to say.

Sam clears his throat, jerks his head to left in a gesture so familiar that even without looking Dean knows his eyebrows are drawn together tight and low. “So, ah, that uh, come whatever...” Dean can’t resist sliding his fingers to Sam’s brow and smoothing out the wrinkles he knows are there. Sam’s fingers scritch on his skin in response. “That whatever, it’s like, whatever comes right?” And he turns his head into Dean’s side, rocking his forehead into Dean like he did as a kid when things were almost too overwhelming. 

“Yeah, Sam. Whatever.” He puts his hand over Sam’s and Sam laces their fingers together again and Dean could swear time stops when Sam inhales, turns to look Dean right in the eye and plunges them over the hill.

“Like, better or worse, whatever? Sickness and health, whatever?”

 _Thank fucking Christ_. What little air was left in Dean’s lungs is punched out of him as he crushes Sam against him. Thank anything and everything for Sam. Beautiful, brave Sam who can say the things Dean can’t, things that need to be said. Now it’s his turn to step up. “Yeah, Sammy.” He can’t help it, he buries his head in Sam’s hair, kissing the top of his head. “Yeah, just like that.” Even he can hear the ragged edge of emotion in his voice.

Sam just melts against him, breathing heavily. “Oh, thank god,” he laughs roughly into Dean’s chest. “I...I just...”

“Me, too, Sammy.” Sam is pushing up on his knees now. Smooth and fast, like rounding that curve after the drop, and Sam is over him, straddling his leg, one hand heavy on Dean’s chest, the other pressed into the bed. Dean hand’s is locked in Sam’s hair and he pulls Sam down like gravity.

“Dean,” Sam breathes, stopping millimeters from Dean’s mouth. 

Dean bites his lower lip at the tickle of it, then lets it slip from between his teeth. Sam’s dark eyes follow the motion, and Dean tilts his chin up to brush their lips together. “C’mon, Sam,” he almost whispers, flicking his tongue across Sam’s mouth and just reveling in the shudder it draws from him. “I know you’ve been saving it for the wedding night, so fucking kiss me already.” 

Sam’s on him like a tidal wave or a hurricane or some other force of nature that reshapes the very earth it touches. His mouth is hot and his hands are everywhere: on Dean’s chest, scraping across his nipples, squeezing his arms, cupping the back of his head and sealing his mouth over Dean’s.

The slow drag and grind Sam does against Dean’s thigh as he leans up to pull off his shirt is completely unfair, but seeing as it drives Sam’s thigh into Dean’s rock-hard cock, he’s willing to let it go. “God,” he groans, grabbing the back of Sam’s leg and pulling him forward. “Fucking do that again.”

Sam’s shirt hits the floor and his hands hit the mattress on either side of Dean. The bed frame creaks as Sam braces his feet on the footboard and rolls his hips, dragging his hard, hot length up and down against Dean’s. Dean’s eyes roll up into his head and his eyelashes flutter like a chick's in a romance novel. Sam moans hot and sweet in Dean’s ears and Dean’s palms itch with anticipation. He slides his hands under the waistband of Sam’s jeans for a quick squeeze before dragging them ever so slowly up Sam’s side, feeling the muscles and bones (too much bone, not enough muscle) move under his hands. Sam stops moving, ribcage opening with each deep breath, eyes closed, as Dean takes his time exploring Sam’s skin. 

He’s had his hands on Sam a thousand times, stitching, bandaging, checking for injuries, holding on tight just to make sure Sam is near him, safe with Dean. This is incredibly different and exactly the same. Checking for injuries, keeping Sam safe with him. Dean slides his arms up and under Sam’s shoulders pulling him down quick and sure, driving his tongue into Sam’s mouth as he drags his nails down Sam’s back in parallel rows of heat. Sam’s arms tremble and he collapses on top of Dean, wrenching his mouth away with a shudder. “Oh, fuck. Dean.”

Hands back on Sam’s shoulders and Dean rolls them over and almost off the way-too-small for two grown-ass men bed. It’s his turn to strip his shirt off. He doesn’t stop there, unbuttoning and shimmying out of his jeans and boxers in one smooth move. Sammy, always the bright one, flicks his button open, lifts his hips and slides his jeans off as well.

The first press of their bodies together is incendiary; the velvet over steel feel of them together almost too much to bear. It shouldn’t be so much, this high-school level sliding of bodies, this simple pressing together of mouths, the flicking tongues, biting teeth and roaming hands. But it is. It’s more than anything Dean’s ever had before. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. Prepared him for it being Sam’s skin sliding over his, Sam’s mouth on his, and Sam’s hard length burning like a brand against his stomach. 

It's the purity of purgatory, the homecoming of heaven, and the fiery burning of hell. It's them, together at last, like it was meant to be. Heaven created them for each other.

Their harsh panting breaths and low grunts fill the room, the heat of their bodies raising the temperature, and sweat and leaky cocks slicking the space between them. Sam’s legs are bent up on either side of Dean, arms crushing him to his chest. The heat builds at the base of Dean’s spine and their hearts pound as Sam gallops towards the edge with him. “God, Sammy,” he moans, clenching his fingers tight in Sam’s hair, his goddamn gorgeous hair that Dean is never going to let him cut again. “Love you,” he gasps against the column of Sam’s neck. “Love you, baby boy.”

“Oh, god, Fuck, Dean. Love you, too. Love you so much.” Sam pants, head turning, seeking Dean’s mouth. Sam grabs Dean’s ass with both hands and just hauls him up and down his body until all Dean can do is hold on for the ride. He braces his feet against the footboard, one hand on the headboard and holds them both in place as they rock and thrust and pound the bed against the wall.

When Sam’s tongue plunges into this mouth, Dean grabs it between this teeth, sucking on it and hollowing his cheeks like he is going to do to Sam’s cock as soon as possible. But not right now. The whines streaming from Sam’s mouth, the way his body trembles under Dean’s and the way his cock jumps and throbs with every press of Dean’s hips is too good to stop. They are so close. They just need. One. More. Push.

Dean reluctantly pulls away from the heaven of Sammy’s mouth and shifts up onto his knees just enough to get his hand down between their sweat-slicked bodies. They both groan when he wraps his hand around their lengths. Sam’s thighs spread wide around Dean’s legs and Dean loves the way Sam feels all stretched out and shaking beneath him. “Fucking gorgeous, Sammy. Oh, Christ. Yeah.” 

“Dean, fuck, Dean!” Sam yells, clenching hard on the meat of Dean’s ass, his hips shooting up and lifting them off the bed as his orgasm punches out of him in pulses of heat and a cyclone of curses and love. “Fuck, love you. Shit, shit. God. Love you.” He pants and shudders through the waves of pleasure.

“Yeah, just like that, just like that,” Dean mutters into Sam’s skin, voice low and ragged, as he drags his fist fast and hard up and down, slicked by Sam’s come and sweat. “Oh, fuck.” His hand tightens as he comes, his hard cock throbbing against Sam’s, wrenching another groan out of him as liquid heat shoots over them. Dean collapses onto the bed on with a heartfelt groan and a wavering half-laugh. “Fuck. Goddamn.” He lands on his back, one leg thrown over Sam.

Sam laugh weakly. “You got that right.” He throws his arm across his eyes to block out what little light fills the room.

Dean aims a weak punch at Sam’s shoulder but his muscles aren’t quite under his control yet and he only succeeds in flopping his hand down onto the mess of come and sweat on Sam’s stomach. “Ugh,” he grimaces even as he scrapes his fingers through it in spirals and swirls until Sam is twitching with the sensation. He starts exploring lower, scratching through the wiry curls cradling Sam’s soft cock, letting his imagination wander to other possibilities inherent in Sam’s body. 

“Deeeaaaan,” Sam groans, rolling his hips a little away. “Shower. Sleep. Sheets. Please tell me we have clean sheets.”

Dean reaches up and pulls Sam into his side. “We have an entire linen closet, baby,” Dean growls mock-seductively.

“You’re such a sweet-talker,” Sam says as he slides his arm across Dean’s chest, tucks his head under Dean’s chin and they’re back where they had started.

Dean tightens his arms around his brother as the enormity of it all hits him. He shivers as sweat dries on his body. He can feel his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs, but he can’t seem to stop. His heart pounds in his chest and a new, colder sweat prickles across his body as he realizes how very, very close he had come to losing Sam for real and forever. How close he’d come to never having this. “Sammy,” he forces out, voice thick with tears.

Sam doesn’t look up, just rubs up and down wherever he can reach. “Shh. It’s okay, Dean. I’m here. I’m safe. We’re okay. Shh.” He keeps rubbing, murmuring, and soothing until Dean’s breathing smooths out. 

Dean touches his fingers under Sam’s jaw and tilts his face up. He holds them there as Sam scoots up Dean’s body until their lips touch. The kiss is long and slow, deep and unhurried now that the first rush of passion is past. It’s still there, they both feel it, banked, needing only the barest of breaths to fan the flames again. One last sweep of his tongue across Sam’s lips and Dean pulls back to look at his brother.

“I’m...I’m not...I can’t ever be sorry I didn’t let you go. I mean, I know you were tired and you deserve it, man. You deserve the rest. But I just...”

“Dean.” Sam shakes his head. “It’s okay. I get it.”

“I can’t do this without you.” It’s the deepest truth of Dean’s life.

Sam leans over and kisses the tattoo over Dean’s heart. “Yeah, well I can’t either. And I don’t want to.”

Dean closes his hand over Sam’s neck, shaking him gently. “We are so fucked up.” 

Sam laughs. “Maybe so. But here we are. For better or for worse.”

“For better or for worse,” Dean echoes. Yeah, it might be fucked up, but it’s them. This is theirs and no one can take it away from them. 

Sam twines his fingers through Dean’s again. “Didn’t know you had such a hand-holding fetish, Sammy.”

Sam pulls their hands towards him, turns them so he can kiss the back of Dean’s hand. “I like to hold yours. Makes me feel safe. Like when I was little and you would help me find my new classroom, or cross the street.”

Dean frowns, opens his mouth to say something, closes it, and frowns against while Sam keeps kissing his knuckles. “I can’t tell if that’s really fucked up or really fucking sweet.”

He yanks his hand away with a hiss as Sam bites sharply at a finger. “We’re Winchesters. Don’t get one without the other.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

Sam’s quiet for long enough that Dean’s trying to figure out how to politely say get off me so I can shower and just as Dean thoughts reach the _fuck polite_ stage Sam breaks the silence.

“Did you ever think we would end up here, together, like this?” He looks at Dean, waiting.

Dean thinks back, their lives unfolding like the road before him. A really dark, scary road. Back through angels and demons and apocalypses. Back through time and heaven’s plans and their mom’s deal. Back to fire and heat and fear and the feel of his precious baby brother heavy in his arms as their lives burned down around them. 

And he looks at them both here, now. Alive. Together. And he kisses Sam with all the love he keeps in his heart just for Sam. Forever and always and only for Sam. “Oh, baby boy, we were never going to end up anywhere else.”


End file.
